8/20/2006

Living with roommates

I've always been an independent type. I love to travel, and harbour a distinct preference for living alone. It's not that I hate to live with others it's just that somehow, I've never found a flatmate I've liked for very long. When I moved to New York, I considered finding a roommate. I figured, with the high cost of rent in the city, it might allow me to live in a bigger apartment. Perhaps it would be a good way to meet people. Maybe I would even like it. But moving to a new city doesn't transform you into a new person. When the excitement dies down, you realize that you are still the same soul, with all the same likes, dislikes and eccentricities. After consideration, I opted to live the blissfully self-centred life of a single girl in a Manhattan studio apartment. Accordingly, there are certain things I can be sure of. When I leave a pristine apartment in the morning, I know it will stay spotless until my return. When there's mess, I am consoled in the knowledge that at least it's my dirt (and how can that be bad?) So imagine my surprise and disgust, when I returned late one evening to find that I had acquired an unwanted new roommate. It was a steamy New York night. I had been out with friends, enjoyed their company for a few hours, but then felt like spending a little me-time at home. I envisioned walking through the door, kicking off my shoes and cranking the air conditioner, collapsing onto my bed and watching a film. I could already taste the feeling of calm it would afford me. But as I walked down my hallway and switched on the studio light, there she was: a small brown mouse, sitting on my window ledge. I panicked. So did the mouse, and scurried across the windowsill, but there wasn't really anywhere for it to hide. After all, if you live in a studio apartment, you're keenly aware of another's presence at all times. Understand, these are the moments when a girl misses her daddy. Back home, one phone call would be enough to send him promptly over to my house armed with a broom, a jar and a can of bug spray (okay, so we usually deal with insects, not rodents). Everything would be all right. Here, I was at a loss. Frozen with fear, I managed to call a girlfriend. She was sympathetic, but couldn't offer much in the way of help. I called a guy friend. Unwilling to attend the scene immediately, he coaxed me into grabbing a few things and spending the night at his apartment, with the promise that in the morning we would return and eradicate the mouse. I can't say I was happy, but it was the best offer I had. The next morning, we headed for my apartment, via the local hardware store. The assistant there delighted in describing the various ways I could trap or kill the rodent. Somehow, the idea of finding a dead mouse seemed even worse to me than finding one living. So, $60 later, I left the store, armed with a humane mouse-catching house and a set of plug-in electric deterrence devices big enough to outfit a three-bedroom house. We performed a full mouse-check, found nothing and set up the trap and devices. I was mildly placated. So far, the mouse has not been back. And ironically, when I think about it, I'd probably have felt a lot better about the whole situation, if I had been facing it with a roommate.

8/08/2006

Keeping your wits in the big city

THIS morning I survived an attempted con job, I think. Although, as you would expect, I didn't know I was dealing with a con artist at the time. It was a bright Sunday morning and I ventured out to perform some new-house-related errands. On the way, I stopped at a quaint French waffle cafe, Petite Abeille, on 18th Street and Sixth Avenue. Spring has just begun here in NYC. The sun was shining and a cool breeze was blowing, so I decided to enjoy my latte and baguette outside the cafe, beneath their blue and white striped awnings. No sooner than I had sat down, with warm beverage and hot crusty roll in hand, did a man walk past me. After passing me by, he did a double-take, and stopped to speak to me. First he complimented me on my looks, introduced himself as a television studio executive and asked me what I did for a living. "I'm a writer," I said. “Wow, you’re gorgeous,” he said, “Have you ever thought of using your voice for cartoons? Why don’t you come to my office and we can discuss it, it’s just down the street.” I looked at him. I looked at my baguette, and I asked him: “Do you have a card? I’m a naturally suspicious person. Perhaps I could see you later.” “Yeah, I have a card. But my office is right here down the street, why don’t you come up and we can talk about it?” Sensing my unwillingness, he pulled two cards out from his wallet and thrust them towards me. He held them together, with one sitting on top of the other. The top card was fully visible, bearing his name and a major network logo. The bottom card was almost completely obscured, except for the logo of another major network, peeking out from under the upper left corner of the top card. I reached for them. “Oh, I don’t like to give out my cards,” he said, withdrawing them. “Ok,” I said, and looked at him blankly, “I don’t think I am going to come with you right now.” “Well, uh, are you going to be here for long? I could catch you on my way back, if you’re still here.” “Sure,” I said, and he left. The minute he was gone I started to calculate just how fishy this whole scenario was. Now keep in mind, the whole thing only took about 30 seconds to play out. Within half a minute he was gone and my head was spinning. Words and images started flashing through my mind, just as they would in a movie or TV show. “I don’t like to give out my cards.” What TV exec doesn’t like to give out cards? Or for that matter, what human being who has cards (usually a box of 500 or so) doesn’t like to hand them out at the slightest whiff of an opportunity? And how could a TV exec work for two different networks? As I came to think of it, I realized: he was probably keeping the bottom card hidden because it had a different name on it. He had somehow acquired those cards from actual TV executives. No wonder he doesn’t like to hand them out - he’s only got one of each! But here’s the clincher: if I am so good-looking, as he said, why would I be perfect as a voice-over artist for cartoons!? It’s like saying you have a good head for radio. Suddenly I understood. Flattery was the key to any good abduction. As a con artist, the key is to make the target want to go with you. And had he been a little more convincing, he may have even had me. Scary thought, right?!

Dating rules of the New York City jungle

Last week, New Yorkers learned the tragic story of Sarah Adelman, a 25-year-old single, who jumped to her death from an Upper West Side apartment, following a relationship break-up. One of her final acts while living was to call an ex-boyfriend. Despite an existing condition of depression, friends and members of the local Jewish community were quick to acknowledge that the extreme pressure of trying to find an Orthodox husband was certainly a contributing factor in her decision. It’s no secret that this city is a dating jungle, where the laws of nature (and classical economics) prevail. It’s completely out of control, and replete with peculiarities. Any observer will tell you, the island of Manhattan is overflowing with beautiful, intelligent, classy women. These women are driven, accomplished and highly groomed (so, no wonder there’s a beauty parlour on practically every corner). And although it’s not often discussed, they are experiencing a man-drought. Nobody is quite sure where the cache of correspondingly clever, charming and handsome males is being stashed. In explaining this gender imbalance, some women point to New York’s sizable gay community. Jealous and bewildered they watch groomed, gorgeous men walking arm-in-arm with similarly buffed and stunning male prototypes. It seems the old refrain “all the good ones are taken”, has become “all the good ones are taken, by other good ones”. Now, when it comes to dates or casual encounters, there is no lack of action for single women. However, when it comes to finding a suitable partner for marriage, the field empties dramatically. Most Manhattan men, younger than 35, show no interest in advancing their piece forward on the game-board of life. Many in the corporate world work long hours; they require women for little more than after-hours amusement. They recoil at the idea of maintaining a steady relationship. A girlfriend of mine explained it like this: “Mike* doesn’t want to settle down. Why would he? Every night he can choose from an array of beautiful women, and they’re all happy to sleep with him.” While this may refect the sorry state of the dating scene for most New York singles, isn’t the Orthodox Jewish community supposed to be different? A female friend divulged her back-up plan to me a few years ago: if she wasn’t married by 30, she planned to become Orthodox. According to her calculation, the community would welcome her warmly and find her an appropriate match in no time. Yet, it would seem that in New York, even the religious often find it tough. When an observant friend of mine heard the awful news about Ms. Adelman, she raced over to talk to me, shocked but somehow vindicated. “It’s impossible!” she sighed. “Every week, outside synagogue you see these George Constanza types surrounded by manicured, pedicured, beauties… and you can’t even get close enough for a conversation, it’s like R’RAIW.” Her miaow noise was accompanied by a demonstration of elbowing manoeuvres and vicious scratches. Clearly, the laws of the jungle prevail on the Upper West Side. And if supply and demand is the root of the problem, then any reduction in the man-stock is really everyone’s concern. This explains why there was such an uproar last year when Kristina Grish’s Boy Vey!: The Shiksa's Guide to Dating Jewish Men hit bookstores. Nobody wanted to see an already scant resource further diminished with the aid of a self-help book. Personally, after assessing the conditions of the field and coming to understand the local market I decided, as ridiculous as it sounds, that New York is not the place to meet a Jewish husband. Just wait until my mother hears. * Not his real name. A successful young lawyer from Australia.

About Me

I'm a freelance food writer formerly based in New York City, and now exploring the globe... one dish at a time.